(First, a warning. I am going to say some pretty frank things in this note. So, if you are not ready for the conversation, come back next week.)
I took a couple of Sabbath days earlier in the week. It was wonderful to rest mind and body and walk in the woods painted in fall colors and look out on a lake that was calm and glistening in the sunlight. It rested my weary soul.
As I thought about my weekly PW, I decided to reflect on how sabbath can help us recharge open up our spirit. However, other events this week have crowded in, and I decided to give us a chance to think together on a more difficult topic.
This week, we have, once again been part of a national conversation about sexual assault. The reason it has gotten so much attention, has to do with the profile of the alleged perpetrator–a Supreme Court Nominee. Let me be clear, in case you think the pastor is about to go all political on you, that I am less worried about the political ramifications, than the moral ones. I have read, listened, and had conversations with a wide number of folks about the allegations of Dr. Christine Ford against Judge Brett Kavanaugh. Why now? Why did she wait so long to report? Why should allegations from so many years ago even be relevant? Aren’t people presumed innocent until proven guilty? This could ruin a man’s future! Think of the damage this is doing to his family!
Yes. I get it.
But the part of the conversation I want us to focus on is at the very core of who we understand ourselves to be—as a nation, as a democratic system and as people of faith. Do we believe that some people are of more worth than others—their safety, their past, their future, their success? Do we believe that women, girls and vulnerable men and boys should not have to endure sexual assault and harassment—even if the perpetrator has a bright future ahead of him or her? Should their voices be heard? Believed? Taken seriously?
I read this morning that the phone calls to national sexual assault hotlines had increased by over 200% this week. The hashtags #metoo and #whyIdidn’treport have flooded social media. Every woman I know has a story. Every. Woman. I. Know. (This is higher than the reported national average.) Think about it. Every time we get a story like this in the news, women (and many men as well) have had to relive some of the worst experiences of their lives. Some of us end up telling stories to each other that we have never told before. Why didn’t we share them when they happened? Why didn’t we “call the FBI?” Why didn’t we tell our caring parents? Why didn’t we report the behavior to a teacher? Why didn’t we yell, scream, struggle, fight, make a scene?
Ah. Let me count the ways. Let’ start with the questions: What were you doing at that party in the first place? Were you drinking? What were you wearing? Were you flirting? Did you encourage him in any way? Did you scream? Did you fight him? How many times did you say no? Did you say anything at all? You know, if this goes any farther, it could ruin his chances at…
Guys tend to get carried away at this age. He didn’t mean anything by it. He couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t that big a deal, he didn’t manage to go all the way, did he?
There are lots. Lots. More.
Over the years I have had conversations with many girls and women. They (we) feel shame, responsibility, and fear when it comes to unwanted advances, aggressive behaviors and sexual harassment and assault. For as much advancement women have made over the years, there is still a huge stigma attached to “allowing” yourself to be a victim. “I should have….” “Why didn’t I” and, of course, “No one would believe me.” (He’s young. He’s old. He is a nice guy. You must have misunderstood.)
This just has to change.
A social researcher named Jackson Katz poses this question to groups of men and women;
“I draw a line down the middle of a chalkboard, sketching a male symbol on one side and a female symbol on the other.
Then I ask just the men: What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? “
Want to guess the response? Yup. Except for a bit of nervous laughter, there was none.
He repeats the question to the women in the room.
(Try it. Ask any woman you know. Any.)
Look in the backseat of the car when returning from shopping. Carry car keys with the keys pointed out, to use as a weapon. Avoid parking garages. Don’t walk alone at night. (anywhere). Lock the windows at night, even if it is hot outside. Don’t ever put a drink down and come back to it. Watch your drink getting poured. Own a big dog. Carry pepper spray. Don’t get into an elevator alone with a strange man. If you walk alone and hear someone walking behind you, cross to the other side of the street. Don’t hike/camp/drive cross-country alone.
So beloved. This is hard. I want to change the world. For me. For you. For my kids, your kids, everyone’s kids. For our nation, that can do better—that must do better. I believe we are created to be people in relationship and community. If we are to connect and belong in the way in which Christ invites us—we better make sure that it is a safe place for everyone.
There are some fun advantages to doing unexpected things. The odd surprise gift. An unexpected card written by a friend. An unexpected thank you from someone we barely know. Flowers that show up for no particular occasion. A random act of kindness performed by a stranger. I love giving moments to others like this. And I certainly love receiving them
Several weeks ago, I was leaving an art gallery with my friend, Judy. We had a great time looking at the work of local artists. The arrangement and design of the building was soul nourishing. But, there was something even more soul nourishing right out the front door. Along side the entrance was a row of carefully cultivated roses—they stood at least five feet tall. There were bright reds, deep pinks, and an absolutely gorgeous yellow, that had the barest touch of pink at the center. And they smelled just as a rose garden should smell. We both stopped to reach out to the roses and inhale deeply. Glorious! Just then a man came out of the building, and in a teasingly gruff voice said to keep my hands off the roses! I smiled at him, and said we couldn’t resist.
He walked over to us and gave us a bit of history about the gardens, then he reached over us, and plucked a single yellow rose. He smiled, handed me the rose, and said, “It’s okay, I know the gardener.” It was a moment of kindness, grace, and gave us both a moment of joy—that held us all day.
Over the weeks since that small moment happened, I have been thinking a great deal about kindness. It really doesn’t take much time, effort, or thought to provide that indefinable experience of caring for someone or something that you might not be expected to care for or about. A number of years ago, there was a short spurt of activity spurred on by the phrase—“perform random acts of kindness.” It was a great thought. And for a short time, there did seem to be more people being attentive to those random moments of opportunity—to hold a door, give away a parking space, carry someone’s groceries to the car.
But lately, I’ve been thinking that kindness needs to be a bigger part of my intentions than just something that happens randomly. I think we may need to bring out the BIG INTENTION—and live in a place of kindness. Every moment. Not just when I happen to remember that being nice is polite, or courteous, or could make a stranger’s day better.
Kindness isn’t something that gets a lot of press these days—although there are plenty of human interest stories on social media and the news that attempt to focus on something other than all the bad news. And this is good. But what if…
What if, I, what if we realized that what we put in the world matters. The words we use. The way we walk through the grocery store. The kind of conversation we have at the bank counter. Our 3 minute conversation while we are waiting in line for coffee. The way we answer the phone when we don’t know who is on the other end of the line. The way we notice and respond when someone looks lost, afraid, uncertain.
One day I was contemplating the concept of “being Jesus” in the world. Kind of silly, really. None of us, especially pastors, should try to be anyone else’s savior. It is unhealthy for us, and irritating to everyone else. But I think there is something there that calls to me. I don’t need to replace Jesus, pretend to be Jesus, or even dress like Jesus. But I can be Jesus in the sense of looking through the eyes of God on those who co-habit the planet with me.
I can make generous assumptions about the actions of others, without assuming that they are out to make my life difficult. I can choose to believe that others are just trying to get through the day the best they can-just like me. I can acknowledge that sometimes ,we all need a bit of grace. I can practice Kindness. Attention. Intention. And although it might not bring about world peace, it might bring a moment of peace, joy, and relief to someone who needs it. And if enough of us do this, who knows what else might happen?
What do you think? Blessings dear ones. See you Sunday. Pastor Nancy
I’ve been reflecting on the nature of family this week in preparation for preaching a short series on the book of Ruth. I took a quick look at Merriam-Webster, and noticed something interesting. The first definition of family does not even mention biological relationship; rather, it is called “a basic social unit consisting of parents and their children, considered as a group, whether dwelling together or not. The annotation continues on down the page, biology enters the definition at subsection 4.
We all need the things that family is built to provide: unconditional love, nurture, safety, stability, belonging, connection, correction. Not all of us are lucky enough to have received these building blocks of life from the families to which we are born. And even if we are, the concept of intimate, trustworthy “social units” is much too important to only include those who are connected to us through biology.
I am blessed with a pretty fabulous family…only some of whom are biologically related. I have given birth to two amazing sons, Jonathan and Devin. I love them more than words could ever express. I am proud of the men they have become. They are that part of my heart that exists and walks outside my body. Wherever they are, my heart walks with them. Years ago, a quirky Cistercian monk named Theophane, asked me: “What have your children taught you?” I didn’t even hesitate, “unconditional love.” Jonathan married Michelle, who became the first daughter of the tribe. She is a very competent nurse, and promises that she will still love and take care of me when I am old and cranky, and I believe her.
My husband, Mike, became family through our marriage. He is the steadiness to my creative “starbursts” upon whom I can depend. He keeps me grounded. He helps me laugh. He teaches me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be love. Justin became my son, because I married his dad. I loved him from the first day we met. He in turn married Jonah, who is a delight. From Jonah, our whole family has learned the power of expressing a happy moment with a simple and powerfully enthusiastic “Yay!”
Mike and I also have a daughter, Abbie. I met Abbie when she was a senior in High School. She is not ours by birth or adoption, but we belong to each other nonetheless. For a while, I thought I was helping Abbie to learn and grow what she needed to prepare for life. But, as is often the case, I have learned so much more from her, that I could have ever given. She is a phenomenal woman. We love her to the moon and back.
My sister Judy. Well. What can I say. She came into my life during my first full time appointment as a pastor. She has fed me, encouraged me, stuck with me, and been everything I could have ever wished a sister could be. Our relationship reminds me of the way some cats show up on the doorstep, and decide they have found home. Sometimes it has been me sitting on the porch, and sometimes it has been she.
My family continues to grow as the years pass. My tribe includes many of the folks who have been part of my life as a pastor over the past 20 years or so. Some are friends who chose to be present during some of the darkest moments of my life, those who I know would move heaven and earth to show up if I truly needed them. And those who know I would do the same for them. That is what the best kind of families do.
A few years ago, I was at a workshop where a presenter instructed pastors that if we wanted to grow our churches, we needed to stop referring to our congregations as “family.” Putting the family label on a congregation can inhibit growth. It sets up insiders and outsiders. The old guard become gate keepers, as the circle of intimacy keeps out those who are unaccustomed to “our way of doing things.” We often don’t even notice that we are doing it, declaring to all and sundry that our church is just one happy family. And what about those of us for whom the whole concept of family is toxic. If all you have ever known is a family that is dysfunction, judgmental, untrustworthy, why take a chance with “church” as one more opportunity to be betrayed? There is truth to both of these critiques.
I can totally understand the ambivalence that many folks have these days toward the church. I understand the cynicism and skepticism of our times, when we simply cannot trust that any institution, especially one with the kind of checkered reputation as the Christianity, could provide the kind of unconditional acceptance, safety, belonging and connection that we all need to thrive. But I still believe it to be true.
The church (with a little “c”) has been my family since I was nine years old. Even when I have been hurt by the church (big C and little c) it is the family to whom my heart still turns in times of stress and in times of joy. The church is my tribe. They are my people. They are my hope for the world.
It can get kind of messy—this business of creating God’s dream in the world—the “kin-dom” I like to call it. It is a big table, but about the time it looks like there is no more room, God tells us to scoot over and adds a few more chairs. (No cardboard tables in the other room.) If we get too squished, God will just make the table bigger. It is madness by the world’s standards. But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
A family is many things,
Not bound by size or kin.
Each person’s gift a breath of spring,
God’s music can begin.
A dream, a voice, a smile, a prayer,
Together we are strong.
United, coming now to share,
In one accord God’s song.
To celebrate the gifts we bring,
The Christ in one we know,
We dare to hope, to laugh, to sing,
To praise, to dance, to grow.*
Blessings, dear family. May we live into God’s dream together. Pastor Nancy
One of the hardest transitions for me as a pastor every year is when the calendar slides from July to August. It is still summer, but fall is already casting a long shadow I can’t ignore. School supplies fill the store shelves. Gardens are producing in abundance (well, ours isn’t, but that is a topic for another day). End of summer adventures are squeezed into the schedule.
This week has me getting down to the serious work of fall planning. Lots of things start up in the fall. There is the re-gathering of the diaspora of summer adventurers we call “Homecoming Sunday” (September 9, if you’re curious), there is a shiny, new sermon series in the works (called Connecting and Belonging), and finance team and I are working on what we hope will be a fun (yes, you read me right, FUN!) stewardship campaign before advent. I am looking forward to seeing all these things take shape.
On the other hand, I don’t want to let go of summer. My flower beds are finally beginning to fill in, although I can still hear the siren call of all the plants that would add additional beauty and serenity. (The local nurseries love to see me pull in the driveway.) I love how the back yard is shaping up. Last year I could see the possibilities. I wanted it to be a place of peace and respite, and where we could offer friendship and hospitality. And it is! I love having people come over to sit on our back patio and enjoy the flowers, the shade, the gentle sound of our fountain and wind chimes as we share stories and a cool beverage. (Let me know if you want to come, you would be most welcome!)
I don’t want to rush through these next few weeks. There are many, many things on the to-do list, and the calendar is already getting full as we move toward a different rhythm. But I hope we will all have some moments of sabbath rest, even in the midst of this transition. Sometimes it is a matter of intention and attention, and other times, it means stepping away. Next week, I will be taking a few days to be intentional about rest and presence. I will be heading to my happy place—the beach—to enjoy the power of surf, sand, wind and sky to quiet heart, mind and body. There isn’t much on the agenda for these few days, except to eat as much fresh seafood as possible, watch the waves, have great conversations with a dear friend, and walk in the healing presence of the Holy One.
Chris and Mike will be around for any emergencies. And, I will be back in the saddle to preach next Sunday. Don’t forget to savor. Don’t forget silence. Don’t forget that you are beloved.
It was good to get home on Saturday afternoon from camp. I emptied most of my suitcase in the dirty clothes, took a long shower to remove the smell of campfire from my hair, and then got ready to go back for our adventure at camp together on Sunday morning after our service here in Madras.
What a great day! We are already planning for our all-church picnic and worship at Suttle Lake to become an annual event. There were 35 of us, plus staff and counselors gathered on the playing field for barbeque out on the beautiful lawn. The menu was traditional picnic fare with hotdogs, hamburgers, potato salad, chips and drinks. We managed to rearrange the tables so we could all sit in the shade, and even had a bit of excitement when the automatic sprinklers turned on suddenly. The intrepid Resident Counselors ran for the sprinklers to keep the water off all of us—so they were the only ones to get wet. After lunch, we gathered in one of the chapel areas and worshipped together. The Resident Counselors joined us for worship, and provided leadership in “Fred the Moose,” and also sang one of the songs I learned from them in the course of our week together. It is called “Madly,” and I wanted to share the lyrics with you:
I’m madly in love with you.
I’m madly in love with you.
I’m madly in love with you.
I’m madly in love with you.
Let what we do in here,
Get to the streets out there.
We will dance for you.
We will dance for you.
That is the whole thing, isn’t it? Earlier in the morning, a young woman stood out in our greeting area. Gary introduced her to me, and we visited a few minutes before worship. She explained that she was looking for a church. We chatted a few more minutes about this and that, and then she said that she had noticed our rainbow flag as she was walking by the church other day. “Is that for real?”
“Well, yes,” I said, “we are a reconciling congregation, which means that everyone is welcome here.
She paused, “I was kicked out of my home church. My pastor told me I am going to hell.”
Since then, she has been looking for a place to belong. So far, she hadn’t been welcomed in any church she had tried.
My heart cracked a bit as she shared her story.
I was glad to be able to say that I thought she would not experience that here.
She took a seat near the back, and I kept an eye out for her. I saw folks greet her, shake her hand and welcome her. The sermon text for the morning, was about Paul and Barnabas returning to Jerusalem. Some folk had heard about their welcoming the Gentiles into the fold, and wanted to make sure that the new converts realized they would have to change their ways in order to be part of the community of Jesus followers. Paul and Barnabas argued with them until they were blue in the face, and they all finally decided to head back to Jerusalem to see what the Apostles and elders had to say.
The conversation must have been long and intense. They had a hard decision to make—do we insist that all who follow Jesus conform to one orthodoxy—i.e. become Jews—or do we make room at the table for those who had never been invited? Their decision on that day changed everything. Who is welcome? Who can be one of us? How wide is God’s circle? The debate still rages.
After the service, I invited her to join us on our field trip to Suttle Lake. She couldn’t, because she works three jobs. I said, I hoped she would come back.
The card she filled out during the service had these words written in a neat hand: “I felt very welcome here.”
Beloved, may “what we do in here, get to the streets out there.” Thanks be to God.
This week’s Preacher Woman comes to you from “on location” at Suttle Lake United Methodist Camp. How blessed we are to have this fabulous resource so close by! Today is a bit cooler than yesterday, and I have set up shop at a picnic table near the green playing field. The trees are casting just the right amount of shade, there is a fragrant breeze, and I can watch the campers playing some incomprehensible (to me, at least) game involving soccer balls and frisbees (there is a lot of running involved).
We are having a good week. The staff here is impressive, the meals awesome, and the location couldn’t be more beautiful. Most of the counselors are part of the Resident Counselor program here in the Oregon-Idaho Conference. The conference (our apportionments at work) provides youth and young adults training and support and a small stipend, and they spend their summer traveling between our camps, providing leadership, continuity and the kind of expertise only young adults have (like great energy, new and exciting games, and the ability to go without sleep for long stretches of time). They are an impressive group. I am learning some great new songs and games!
I am one of the chaplains this week, so my job is to help with worship experiences, and be a good listener to campers and staff. Not a bad way to spend a week!
Going to church camp was always the highlight of my summer. Much of who I am as an adult, was shaped during those short weeks spent in that special place. Friends. Crafts. Skits. Music.
My counselors were good listeners, who took seriously the worries of a young, sensitive girl, and provided me with space to say out loud some of the things I didn’t think it would be safe to say outside the comfort of my own head:
What if there really isn’t a God? What if the stories in the Bible are just stories? If we need God, does God need us? What is heaven like? Can you be a Christian if your parents are divorced? If your family doesn’t go to church, does that mean they won’t go to heaven? Does God realize how scared I am?
It isn’t just young kids who need safe space to ask these questions. So many folks—of all ages—with whom I speak are in considerable ambivalence about this whole faith thing. As most of us are aware, the “Nones” are the fastest growing designation of religious affiliation in the U.S. In my world, I often hear doubt, curiosity, cynicism, and lots of questions. Here are some of the questions I hear:
Are we naively holding onto a remnant of hopeful and magical thinking? Or are we settling for a simple way to make the world easier to understand or have meaning? After all, people seem to be able to experience a sense of power and belonging at a college football game or a rock concert. Do we need church for that? Do we need God to be kind, or have integrity, or hold onto a sense of obligation to make the world a better place?
Maybe you recognize some of the questions. Maybe you have them yourself. Maybe you have even more questions than this list provides.
Stepping away to a quiet place can provide the mental and spiritual space to consider the world, our place in it, and our relationship to all that is beyond our ability to categorize and fully comprehend. In the sounds of trees blowing in the wind, the rich smell of pine, wood smoke, sun-warmed grass, our defenses against uncomfortable thoughts can quiet our souls enough to hear that still small voice, or the sounds of sheer silence that the prophet Elijah is said to have experienced when he was at the tipping point of his work as a truth teller. He was tired. He was lonely. He was burned out. Not so different than what many of us experience on a daily basis.
If we get quiet enough, we may have a chance to notice a moment when there is grace where it doesn’t seem possible; where there is love when it isn’t earned or deserved, forgiveness for the unforgiveable; connection between the most unlikely souls. And, my favorite awareness of all– the moments of mystery that calls to us from a place deeper than we ever knew existed in this chaotic and seemingly meaningless universe.
Camp for me has always been about stepping away, letting the mental squirrels rest for a time, breathing deeply, listening and being listened to—and being held by a community—even if that community only existed for that one week of camp. It fed my soul. It nurtured my dreams. It gave me glimpses of Holy Mystery that I had intuited, but rarely experienced. I hope you will join us this Sunday as we worship together at home base, and then join in a time of worship, food, and fellowship up here at camp. You never know what may happen at camp.